“I understand you and Mr. Ashton were close,” he began, only to see the color drain from her face.
“Who told you that?” asked Octavia quickly.
It seemed an odd response. “Does it matter?” he countered. “That you held each other in high regard is nothing of which to be ashamed.”
“No—of course not. It’s just that . . .” She drew a shaky breath. “Forgive me, sir. I-I’m finding it hard to absorb the fact that he is gone.”
“That’s quite understandable, Miss Merton. I shall try to keepmy questions short.” Wrexford gave her a moment to compose herself, but then pressed on. Perhaps it was cruel, assuming her grief was real. However, if fear and guilt were leaving her vulnerable to making a verbal mistake, he couldn’t afford to let the opportunity slip away.
“I’ve been told that Ashton was on the verge of completing work on an important invention—one that would change the way many things are manufactured in this country,” he said. “Is that true?”
“Yes,” said Octavia. “Eli was a genius, and his latest idea promised to be revolutionary.” She looked up from her lap and for the first time allowed her eyes to meet his. “You worked with him on a formula for iron, Lord Wrexford. So you know that his intellect was unique. But . . .”
A tiny furrow formed between her brows. “ But I don’t see what all this has to do with his death.”
It appeared that Mrs. Ashton hadn’t told Miss Merton about the note that had lured her husband to the stews of St. Giles. Was it because she suspected that her husband’s secretary already knew of its existence?
Shaking off such thoughts for the moment, Wrexford replied, “I have reason to believe that someone was hell-bent on snuffing out Ashton’s brilliance.”
Octavia blinked, the only sign of emotion. “I don’t understand. I thought it was a random robbery by footpads.”
“On the contrary, all signs point to it having been a premeditated attack. Judging by the state of his clothing, the killer was searching for something. I think it might have been papers.” He let the words sink in. “Can you think of anyone who might have committed such a terrible crime?”
Her knuckles whitened as she fisted her hands together. Silence stretched long enough that he thought she might not answer. But when she finally spoke, her voice didn’t waver. “No.”
“If his invention was as revolutionary as you say, the patent on it would be worth a fortune,” pointed out Wrexford.
“Eli wasn’t interested in becoming rich,” said Octavia in the same measured tone.
The earl couldn’t help chuffing a skeptical grunt.
“He wasn’t,” she insisted. “Any money made on a patent was going to be used—” Her words cut off abruptly.
“For what?” he prompted.
Octavia stiffened her spine against the pillows, her expression remaining stony. “It doesn’t matter now. He’s dead.”
Wrexford thought it mattered a great deal, and made a note to learn more about Ashton’s business. Looking at her rigid features, he decided there was little chance in prying more information out of her concerning the inventor’s intentions. So he returned to his original line of questioning.
“Ashton may not have been interested in acquiring a personal fortune, but most people are. Greed is a powerful motive. I have a list here of people who knew about Ashton’s research.” Paper crackled as he raised the list from his lap. “Do you think any of them capable of violence?”
One by one, he slowly read off six names, each time getting a brusque shake of her head in response.
He looked up from the page. “And lastly, Benedict Hillhouse.”
“Benedict!” The shrillness of her voice seemed to amplify as it echoed off the ornate furnishings of the room. She looked torn between fear and fury. “No—never!”
Interesting.The sudden burst of emotion hinted at hidden fire. Miss Octavia Merton was taking great pains to keep a tight control over herself, and yet clearly there were passions bubbling just beneath the surface.
“You seem very sure of that.”
“I am.”
The answer made him curious to meet Ashton’s laboratoryassistant. “I should like to speak with Mr. Hillhouse myself. Might you ask him if he will grant me a few minutes of his time?”
“He’s out,” replied Octavia softly.
“When will he return?” countered the earl.
